


Ctrl/Alt/Del

by faeleverte



Series: Two-Man Rule [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AoS Spoilers ep15-22, Canon Compliant, Catharsis, Depression, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Alteration, Phil babbles on paper too, Sexual Content, aftermath of a breakup, clint appears extensively but only in memories, mentions of alcohol as a coping mechanism, told you we’d planned for the Cellist, up second half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that horrible night in the garden in Peru, Clint walked out of Phil’s life. As everything Phil has ever known collapses around him, he starts to understand exactly how much he lost that night.</p><p>One thing about Agent Coulson, though: when everything goes haywire, that’s when he is the most alive. </p><p>Now all he has to do is save his team, his organization, and global security. And maybe, he’ll even figure out how to save himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work will post one chapter a day for four days, when it will be complete. Thanks so much for reading.

(post Yes Men S1E15)

“No, Cl… Ronin,” Phil said, shoving at the brick wall chest in front of him. “Not… no. Just don’t… don’t do that.” 

The evening air in the garden whispered around them, shadows drifting across the limp form of Waarzegster behind Clint’s booted feet. Here, in this convent in Lima, the hush of evening separated Phil from his team, from his mission, from the world outside the curve of Clint’s arms. Phil wanted to fall into Clint, into his embrace, into his body. But… the cracks had to stay hidden. Couldn’t let Clint find the broken places. Couldn’t let him see just how broken Phil was.

“Shhh, babe.” Clint’s voice, thick through the ninja mask, hushed him. Perfect arms gripped tighter against Phil’s struggles. “Come on, babe. Let me make it better. Make _you_ better. Just let me put you together. I can fix it. Fix you. I can do it again. Just let me.”

All the words Phil hoped to hear, everything he wanted. Everything he needed. Of course Clint knew. Clint always knew when Phil was damaged. Knew how to heal him. Clint would know which memories were real and which had been pasted onto the surface of his brain by the robot arm that lit up his neurons while he lay on that narrow table, screaming and begging to die. Clint could erase the false memories of Tahiti, could erase the terror of what lay underneath.

“Yes.” Phil’s answer was barely a whisper, and he stopped struggling and started clinging. Here was a gift: another chance, a single opportunity to change his actions, take back what he’d said and done. Just one chance to keep _this_. Phil’s hands began digging through the mass of black uniform that wrapped Clint’s body, searching for skin. “Please. Please, Clint. I need it. Need you…”

Phil wasn’t sure how they got to the Bus, but that was where he found himself, spread backward across the blotter on his desk, suit hanging half off. He threw his head back, peering through the gloom of the moon that streamed through the skylight, hunting for a way to stay centered. He was sure he would fly apart as Clint, naked and glowing golden in the dimness of the room licked his way down Phil’s chest, biting marks and bruises onto Phil’s skin. Bucking under the onslaught, Phil started begging.

“Yes,” he wheezed, struggling to untangle his arm from his sleeve. His hand slipped free, and he knotted his fingers in Clint’s soft, dark blond hair. “More! Please! God, Clint, more. Mark me! Fuck me!”

“Gonna make it so good, Phil,” Clint growled against Phil’s ribs, rubbing the scratch of day-old whiskers against sensitive skin. “This’ll be all you ever want. I’ll be all you ever want.”

“You are, Clint,” Phil said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against the desk. A tear tickled a path down his cheek. “Just you.”

Between one breath and the next, Phil was bent over his desk, trousers around his ankles and Clint’s teeth buried in his shoulder. He started to shake apart, sobbing, still pleading. Clint’s hand twisted in Phil's hair, pulling too hard, almost hard enough. He struggled to shove back, to hurry things along, but Clint just pinned him down with hands and chest. He kept leaving bruises with fingertips and mouth.

“So sorry, love,” Phil sobbed, allowing himself to go pliant, to let Clint take, willing to accept anything Clint gave. “I’m so sorry. The things I said.”

Clint drove home in one smooth thrust, fingers squeezing harder still on Phil’s hip. “It was more the things you didn’t say. Why didn’t you say them? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Couldn’t,” Phil gasped, shuddering between the hot sting of tears and the burning pleasure of Clint sliding out slow, slamming home hard. “Wasn’t good enough for you like that. Too broken. Not… not enough...” 

And just like that, Phil was sitting in his chair, suit in perfect order, body empty without Clint pressing into his ass. His hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking apart with the desperate ache to reach, to pull Clint in and get lost in his mouth, his body, take comfort in the warmth of him, the passion of him, the unquestioning _love_ he gave so freely. 

“Fuck you, Phil,” Clint snapped. “Go find someone not me, because I’m done. _Fuck you_.”

Phil sat, frozen and stunned, forced to watch Clint walk out the door again, as he had dozens of time that night-- every night since it had actually happened that night in Peru-- before he managed to drag himself awake. His breath was sobbing in his chest when he sat up, eyes wet, and so hard in his sleep pants that he ached. He punched his pillow and flopped back down on his other side ignoring the physical reaction to the dream. Not that he’d find any release with his hand anyway; he’d tried that twice already. Self-stimulation was not what his body was craving. What his _heart_ was craving.

_Why haven’t you called me yet, Clint? Where are you, babe?_

Lying in the dark was worthless. Phil was awake, half-aroused, half-crying, and his bed was getting more uncomfortable by the moment. He dragged his hands over his face, trying to get his breathing-- and his erection-- under control.

The office was too small for serious pacing, and Phil considered taking his restlessness to the common area. But there were still glass shards in the carpet from May shoving Ward through the glass SHIELD emblem at the end of the lounge, and Phil was too tired to find shoes. Instead, he rolled out of bed and went to the shelf with the tiny model of his Little Red Vette. He picked it up, turning it over to trace the etched scrawl on the bottom. Just a seemingly-random string of letters and numbers, and Phil ached for them to change, to shift, to take on new meaning. To say _I forgive you_ or _I need you_ or-- and this most of all-- _I’m coming back for you._

With a sigh, he put the car back on the shelf and went to his desk, unlocking the drawer that held his hard-copy-only medical file, glancing over the pages again, wishing there was something in there that would… that could… 

_Just some answers. Any answers. Anything to help._

Perhaps May had been right when she turned his own advice back at him after Lorelei had been escorted off the Bus. Maybe Phil just needed to _talk_ about what was going on in his head. Although, surely May didn’t know about Clint. About Phil wedging himself into his micro-shower with Those Shoulders. About Phil being touched, stroked, about words of adoration and… and _love_ being whispered into his skin as Clint slid into… Phil shook his head to clear it.

_What does May know about anything? If her and Ward’s inability to figure their own mess out is any indication, her advice about relationships is worthless._

He _had_ talked to Skye, though. Had told her about the drugs that had saved her life… and his own. He’d told her what he’d found in the bowels of Guest House. Well, he’d mostly told her about what he’d found. He hadn’t described the alien-- half an alien, really-- a mile underground, floating in a tube, being drained of… whatever that was. Hadn’t described the feeling he’d had, how overwhelmed he’d been. Hadn’t described the strange feeling of deja vu that had washed over him. There was something… a something… It was so cold in his stomach when he thought of that moment. A back-current of “what-if” that had frozen him, had kept him silent about his discovery, unable to tell his team. Unable to tell Garrett, in spite of how long they’d known one another (or maybe because of that-- boorish asshat, to mix his own term and Clint’s).

He closed the binder with another sigh and pulled out his tablet to scroll through his email again. There was one message in his spam folder, and he clicked it eagerly, but for once it really was just an add for erectile dysfunction medication. 

Thinking of his, er, _condition_ as he woke up from his dream made Phil snort. _Not the kind of help I need right now, thank you very much._

Phil sent the tablet to sleep and slouched in his chair, one leg kicked over the arm, bare toes tapping melancholy jazz rhythms in the air beside him. With his eyes closed, he could clearly picture Clint’s face, twisted in confusion and horror and anger. Hear his voice, choking on his rage.

_Fuck you, Phil! You want someone without lies all around them, don’t get in bed with a spy. Take your hypocritical bullshit and go find yourself someone in the real world, someone with a normal life. Someone not me, because I’m done. Fuck you, Phil. I’m out of here and out of this._

Clint should have come back by now. He should have… He might have figured it out. Figured Phil out. He should have sent word, tried to catch Phil’s falling pieces. Phalling pieces. _Heh._ There was no humor in the laugh.

Opening his eyes, picturing Ronin’s broad shoulders going out the door, Phil finally got it:

It was _over._ Clint had finally, after so many years… _Clint finally left me._

Phil slowly crumpled against the desk, burying his face in his crossed arms, and let himself sob until he ran out of breath. He stayed there, tears running down his face, silent and unchecked, until the sun rose and he had to shower and dress to face his team. 

He hadn’t seen them in the morning much in recent weeks, as he’d been dragging the Bus and Lola around the world in an effort to hunt down some of the doctors from the Project TAHITI team. He was cashing in favors as he went, calling colleagues he hadn’t seen in decades, putting out the most delicate of feelers, trying to find Fury. Phil nearly called Natasha-- twice-- but managed to resist. She was likely to know Fury’s whereabouts, no matter how far off-radar Fury was, but she was also likely to be very, very angry with Phil. For pushing Clint away. For being so cruel to the one person who… _Stop that right there._ He was spending too much of his spare time during the hunt brooding over Clint.

So he briefed the team on their next stop, ignored May’s worried look (it was something in the way her eyebrows shifted their alignment), and climbed into Lola one more time to head to the coordinates where Jasper had agreed to meet. As he drove, he dug through his brain for something else to worry about, something that wasn’t the ongoing and agonizing silence from Clint. Something that wasn’t _why_ the continued lack of contact made something ache in Phil’s chest. Pulling off of the highway, Phil forced himself to think of Skye, his concerns for her health both physical and mental.

Skye had that _stuff_ from that _thing_ running through her veins, as did Phil. And who knew what it had done to them. What it would do to them in the long run. Was this the reason for Phil’s physical changes? The bit of added strength? The stamina? The… quick reset? 

_Don’t think of Clint. Spread across my desk. Pleading with me. Across the desk from me. Swearing. Spitting. Angry. Calling him a liar and the things he said in answer. Don’t think of him walking away without looking back._

Phil was getting tired of reciting his failures to himself. Failure to protect Skye. Utter failure with Clint, breaking his longest-standing friendship, their relationship, and, quite possibly, the man himself. And then there was Portland. Was Raina right? Had Phil’s death broken her that much? Maybe he should have contacted Audrey. Maybe he should have ignored the orders that kept him away from her. He’d gone against them for Clint.

But Clint was different because… _Shut up, Phillip._

Lola purred as Phil backed her into the parking space. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, forcing himself to think of Skye: how her pale face was slowly brightening, the bruises under her eyes beginning to fade. He’d told her about the alien “medication,” expecting her to be frightened, angry. Expecting her to hurl blame at Phil’s head for his failure to protect her. 

_At least we’re in the dark together_ she’d told him. Phil had looked at her, at her wide, trusting eyes, at the warmth of her smile, and he’d wanted to tell her. Tell her that he was broken. That he’d broken her Ronin. His Ronin. The Ronin. That Ronin had left that day because Phil was useless and cruel and angry. Because Phil cared so much about his own ego that he’d spat in the face of Ronin’s loyalty. Tell her that his heart was broken, and that he needed someone to lean on, and would she please, please just smile that smile, call him AC, tell him he’d be okay. Give him something other than all these damned questions that tracked over and over through his brain that no one could ever answer…..

 _Shut_ up _, Phillip._

And where the _Hell_ was Fury, anyway?

He was startled back to the present by the rumble of an engine. Maybe _this_ would be the time he’d find Fury, find his answers, get his head on straight. 

_Earn back Clint…_

No. Clint was gone. Phil had seen to that when he looked Clint in the eye and called him untrustworthy, disloyal. All while hiding himself. Hiding his own secrets. Lying to Clint’s confused, frightened, angry face.

Head on straight, find a mission, find a goal.

_Protect Skye._

___

Honesty. It was all about honesty. Now that Skye was safe, Phil took every action he could that led to Truth and Clarity and Answers: tell Skye about the alien, prepare his offensive against the Clairvoyant. The closer he pushed toward those goals, though, the more Phil started thinking about lies he’d told, secrets he’d kept. The giant hidden elephant he’d tried to keep from Clint. He wished he could fix it, reel in his words and replace them with the truth. Right now was not the time to go to New York, though, no matter how tempted he'd been after that one chance encounter in California. After what he’d realized as he knelt on sand-dusted cement, breathing in the smell of happy dog.

He stood beside Lola, tie loose around his neck, collar unbuttoned, sunglasses shoved to the top of his head, his face tipped to the sun. Closing his eyes he tried to let the warmth break through some of the ice that had been building in his gut since Lima. Since _before_ Lima. Before the ice storm that had dropped hail stones the size of pigs. The first crystals had formed in a dingy faux-town under a blistering desert sun, and they’d only expanded, filling his chest with a cold that he was beginning to think didn’t have a cure.

Phil had found himself on the ground, fingers against the pistol butt on his hip before he realized he’d been attacked. And then recognition flooded through him, and he was trying not to sob as he stared into the wink-eyed face that was trailing slobber down Phil’s tie. He’d clambered to his knees, trying to keep his arms around the giant ball of hair and tongue and wagging. He clung to Lucky, accepting the wild licks against his face, vision blurring and eyes stinging with tears. 

What was Lucky doing here? In LA, on this street, by this beach? And then Phil looked up into Kate Bishop’s wide, almost frightened eyes over Lucky’s back. She looked much the same as she had when they met in Clint’s ratty little loft in Bed-Stuy. Her dark hair was blowing loose around her face, and her scowling face was slightly more tanned than it had been before. Phil looked away, eyes darting to check for.. But, no. Clint was nowhere in sight. Phil’s stomach clenched, and he swallowed hard, once, to keep from vomiting.

“What are _you_ doing _here_?” they’d demanded, almost in unison. 

“I’m working!” Phil had snapped; it was close enough to the truth. This was a mission, even if it was rather personal. Spying was his work, gathering information, so this was a job, even if it wasn’t precisely an assignment. He looked around curiously, trying to act casual, trying to pretend that every nerve in his body hadn’t just come alive. If Kate was here, and the one-eyed gimpy dog was here… _Where is Clint?_ Phil tightened his grip on Lucky, cheek resting against the furry head, neck tickled by one velvet ear.

“I needed some time away,” Kate’s face went from scared to stubborn, jaw set, lips pressing together. “And Lucky needed someone who’d look after him.”

“You… Lucky… Clint’s _alone_ in New York?” That-- the thought of Clint alone, Clint without his usual support network, the thought of no one to keep him steady and remind him of his own capability-- forced another iceberg into Phil’s chest. Phil tightened his fingers in Lucky’s fur as a new realization forced it’s way in: Phil’s concern for Clint went far deeper than friendship and good sex. It was more, greater, harder to lose. 

_I loved him._ Phil turned his face into Lucky’s scruff. _I still love him. And I sent him away. And he never knew. Will never know._

This was what an emotional breakdown felt like. This was guilt. This was self-loathing. A new surge of ice joined the glacier in his stomach as Phil realized that, left alone to stew in his anger, to realize how uncaring, callous, cruel Phil had been, Clint would never forgive him. There was no way Phil could win Clint back. He’d driven him out of the Bus, out of his life. Threw him off a wire with no safety net. 

_It's really over._

“What have you heard from him?” Kate snapped. Looking up, Phil saw his own confusion and guilt echoed on her face. “Is he okay?”

“I haven’t... talked to him recently,” Phil pulled the tattered remnants of Agent Coulson around his shoulders, hugging Lucky tightly to his chest once more before pushing the dog off his legs. He climbed stiffly to his feet, gently plucking golden hairs off the navy of his jacket. He held them up, nearly releasing them into the wind, and then, on a whim, tucked them into his pocket.

“So are you here alone?” Kate asked, tipping her head to study Phil’s face. 

“Just Lola’n me,” Phil gestured to the car parked behind him. “And you should probably move along. I’m waiting to meet someone about a… classified matter.”

Again the searching look from Kate. "You sure you're okay?"

"Of course I am," Phil had snapped. "And my contact will be here soon, so you need to move along." He didn't add, "back to New York, back to take care him."

Kate had given him one last, searching look, and then she tugged at Lucky’s leash and turned away without a word. Lucky was the only one who looked back, and Phil forced himself to stay still, to let them go. His heart was racing, raw, pulse thick with the need to call them back. To collect _their_ dog and fly across the country to… _To what, Phil? He told you to find someone else, someone not him._

So, honesty was the word of the day. And, honestly, all Phil could do was prepare SHIELD Protocol: Aftermath in case he died. Again. This time there would be a letter that would go out. One letter, one recipient. One opportunity to tell the truth, to try to make it better. One last chance to apologize and hopefully to heal a bit of the damage Phil’s lies (and years of repressed emotions) had done.

It took the better part of three days to get it right.

_Dear ~~Clint~~ ~~Ronin~~ Friend, _

_I’m keeping this to pen and paper, given the sieve that is electronic paperwork these days. If I tried to email this, ~~Skye~~ my hacker would likely find it the next time my back is turned, and I would just as soon not have her knowing these things about me. And what are these things that I don’t want her to know? _

_First is that I am a coward. I am so afraid of facing anything personally difficult that I would rather run away, whatever the cost to myself and anyone around me, than attack it head on. I can face any threat to someone else, any danger to SHIELD or my team. I can face down aliens and gods, and bullets hold no fear. But a whiff of danger to my ego or my heart, and I curl away so quickly that it must leave those around me reeling._

_It’s a strange thing to learn about myself at this age and at this stage of my life. It’s true, though. I was so afraid of what you would think of me that I hid something huge from you. Instead of letting you in, instead of begging you to help me get through it, help me to find out what happened, help me uncover why it happened, I attacked you, pushed you away._

_Which leads to the second thing I would rather not have known, and that is that I am cruel. I didn’t want to need you, and I never considered whether or not you needed me. I never contemplated what it would look like from your angle when I spoke to you the way I did. I never thought that I could hurt you. How it could affect you didn’t enter into my thoughts at all, and that showed in my actions._

_Just how cruel I had been I discovered when I bumped into ~~Kate~~ your protege in California a few days ago. That is almost a literal description of what happened. I was supposed to be meeting, let’s call them an “informant,” and I was waiting beside Lola on a reasonably quiet beach-front street when something large, scruffy, and wiggling with excitement threw me to the ground. Don’t worry. I recognized ~~our~~ your gimpy, one-eyed dog before I drew on him, thankfully. I have never been so _thoroughly_ greeted in all my life. I’m fairly certain I had dog tongue in places I’ve never had any tongue. ~~Not even yo~~_

_~~Ka~~ Your girl asked me how you were, and I didn’t know. For only the second time in over a decade, I couldn’t answer that question. The first was the gap from when I died until I finally disobeyed orders and ran to you. This time, though, this time was entirely my fault. Worse still, one of the people that I was counting on to be there for _ you _had obviously also let you down and taken ~~Lucky~~ the mutt from you, to boot. I was so angry in that moment. With her. With myself. I very nearly grabbed ~~Pizza~~ Dog and aimed the Bus for New York. _

_Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t surprise you that way or force myself, my company on you. I am well aware that it is not my place to watch over the pup, nor is it my place to worry over you. You made it quite clear that you are done putting up with my cowardice, with my idiocy, with my running from you when it gets hard. You’re far wiser than you credit yourself with being. It’s not safe to be around me right now; I am too distracted by my personal problems to be effective at protecting, at leading._

_We nearly lost our hacker._ I _nearly lost her. I sent her into a mission that got far more dangerous than it should have. ~~I should have seen it coming. I should have…~~ We got her back. Through some really hinky means, I have to say. I wish I could tell you more about the methods, but I can’t. Not in a letter like this one. Not in something you likely won’t see unless I’m dead. ~~I hope I get to explain. No, I hope I never have to tell you about that. I hope I never have to see your face when you find out that I’m _tainted_~~ _

_I’m sorry I got her hurt, after you put her in my care. That was a good thing you did, by the way. I should thank you for that. And I_ do _thank you for bringing her into my life. She’s talented. More than that, she’s important. And she reminds me so much of a probie that used to dog my steps when my “senior level security clearance” was so new it still squeaked when I used it. I enjoy having her around, and I’m relieved that she is sticking around. I’ll do my best to watch over her better. I promise you that. ~~Of course, if you get this letter, I obviously didn’t do well enough at looking after myself in order to look after her.~~_

 _Suffice it to say, I am no less messed up than I was before. It’s for the best that you’re clear of this, of_ me _. Thank you for everything. ~~Thank you for sharing your heart with me. And your friendship. And your body. Thanks for~~ Thanks._

_I’m sorry I fucked it up so badly. ~~I only hope that I didn’t hurt you as much as I, frankly, hurt myself.~~_

_~~No, I won’t put that on you.~~ _

_Just that: I’m sorry I fucked up so badly. And thank you. And goodbye._

__~~Love~~  
Phondly,  
Phil 

 

His pen hit the table after he finished the rough draft, and a tear landed on the blotter beside it. Phil scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled out a second page. It wouldn’t do to send the letter in its current form; Hawkeye would see the places Phil’s hurt, his neediness, had bled through, no matter how thoroughly he scratched out the words. The pen pressed to the new page, and Phil leaned back to keep his tears off the paper. After signing his name, he folded the letter and began to press it into the envelope. Before he could seal the flap, he ripped it back out, spreading it on the desk and scrawling on the bottom, in a shaky scribble at odds with the neatness of the second draft.

_ps It’s not fair to tack this on the end of a letter, the last words you will ever receive from me. But I cannot think of leaving the world (again) without having said it to you, just once. I love you. I have loved you for years, and I know that I will always love you. I wish I had realized sooner, soon enough to tell you. I’m sorry for that._

_I love you. Phorever._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> end of Turn, Turn, Turn S1E17 to Providence S1E18

Glass crunched under his shoes with every step across the carpet, and Phil winced at the holes decorating the hull of the Bus. He tried to be understanding, tried to forgive and let it go, but, really, did Victoria _have_ to blow holes in his _home_? His skylight had miraculously survived the attack, but several of the windows around the office had been shot out, and there were bulletholes pocking a few of his favorite collectibles. At least the Bus schematic behind his desk was intact. And his model of Lola. He smiled when he saw her on his shelf, all red, shiny, and perfect.

Phil closed the door behind him, slid the blinds over the windows, both the broken and the whole, and pressed his finger to the tiny biometric scanner on the hidden drawer where he kept a few personal items. He sighed with relief when it opened and the contents appeared undisturbed. Not that he thought anyone would be too interested in a mostly-full box of condoms, a mostly-empty bottle of lube, a well-abused length of purple ribbon, and a stretched out SHIELD-issue t-shirt. The small stack of letters in the back of the drawer, however, might have been of greater worth. 

As soon as he’d figured out that Clint was well and truly gone Phil began writing letters that he knew he would never send. They’d increased in frequency upon discovering the secret his own heart had been hiding from him since the night Clint had come to him in the SHIELD-issue sedan, since the first Phorm had been Philled out by that Phucker. He poured out his concerns, his loneliness, his love. When he was tired or tipsy, unable to sleep or awakened by nightmares, Phil would draw out paper and write, not bothering to censor himself. The one labeled Aftermath was in his safe, sealed and, hopefully, devoid of enough detail to protect its potential recipient. Those in the secret drawer, however, were of a much more _personal_ nature:

_Clint,_

_I wish I could explain to you what happened, but as I can’t now, I’m writing this. Which you will never read. Not logical, but there it is._

_I was not dead for 40 seconds. I was dead for_ days _according to Streiten. And then they had me conscious while they opened my head and played with my brain. I don’t understand all of it. All I know is that it_ hurt. _A lot. It was the worst torture I have ever been through. You were there for Cairo. This was worse._

_Knowing about that, and still dealing with the very odd sensation of having two sets of memories, one of the operations and one of the beach and the sun and the sand (and the beautiful people and tropical drinks - Fury is a generous asshole, even though he IS an asshole)._

_Don’t know why I’m writing this. I should have told you before. Before I was such an ass. Probably wouldn’t have stopped me from being an ass. But it is information you deserved to have._

_Phil_

_***  
Dear Clint,_

_I had that dream again tonight. The one about Mozambique. When we were naked in the rain, and you did that thing with your mouth. Fuck! I miss that thing with your mouth. So why am I writing a letter I never intend to send about it? Simple enough: I’m hard as a fucking rock right now, and I’m unable to bring myself to just go into the shower and do something about it. I never did get to hold you up against that wall and fuck into you. I can’t decide if the claustrophobia would make me hotter or make me hyperventilate. Right now, I think it’s the former. I miss your body so much, I can barely see straight._

_Straight. Heh. There’s the problem. Obviously I wasn’t seeing “straight.” Never wanted to, when you were around. Never wanted to see anything but you spread out for me._

_And I miss the rest of you even more._

_Okay, so I’m not really thinking of the rest of you right now. Just what it felt like to drop to my knees in the mud, to press you down and bury myself in you. The way you screamed under me, the way your shoulders looked with my teeth marks all over them._

_Oh god, I’m leaking. I think I should_

_Fuck. That’s… better. I think. Shit. I got some on the paper. Damned good thing this isn’t one I would send, even if I could. Also, I think I can go back to sleep now._

_Phil_

_***  
Dear Clint,_

_Sincerest apologies for getting so carried away on my last letter. In Peru, I accused you of using me to get you off, and then I turn around and use your memory to do just that. It was unfair of me, and I feel like shit for it. My only excuse is that the lack of you is an ache I can’t ease. Usually, I get in the shower, think of you, and then I just stand there and cry. And that is a fact I will never admit out loud._

_Skye was… in a very bad way. I called a mission where she got hurt, and I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself for it. I know I wouldn’t have, should she have…_

_You always thought I was brave and strong and together. I’m not. I am so weak that I cannot even write the word, here in the silence with no one but memories of you for company._

_If I’d got her killed, how would I survive it? Hell, babe, I’m fucking everything up, and I don’t know how to fix it._

_Tonight I have something to say that I should have said before. I should have said it after that op went sideways in Nairobi, when you came in like an avenging angel to drag me from Perdition. I should have told you after that op in Arizona when I thought you were dead and you came to me like every wet dream I’ve ever had, ripped me apart with your hands and mouth and put me together with your body. I should have told you when you came back to me after collecting Natasha. I should have said it when we were given another chance after I died. I should have pressed the words into your skin when you came to see me before the bridge and everything that happened after, so that you could wear it like a brand, so you would always know._

_But I couldn’t have told you then, because I did not realize it until California, until I was knocked to the ground by your beautiful mutt. Until I realized what I’d lost in losing you._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry I was such a coward. You deserve so much more than I am. But, I guess I proved that in Lima. God, I fucked up everything._

_I’m so sorry,  
Phil_

_ps I have given May the responsibility for destroying everything in the drawer in the event of my death or permanent incapacitation. All it will take is her attempting to force the lock. I think I can trust her to follow my wishes. I sincerely hope so._

_Melinda, if you do somehow manage to break in without burning everything in acid and read these, please keep the contents to yourself. And I’m sorry for the stain on the last one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you that you wouldn’t want to know what was in here._

_What I said about it being sex toys? I mostly lied. And about that: Don’t touch the ribbon._

_***  
My love,_

_Twisted my ankle tonight. Bourbon, music, thoughts of dancing with you don’t go together very well. Least, not in the office. Not enough room._

_I screwed up. With Skye, with you, by taking a side trip to mexico when my team went to the accadamy. acadamy. Acada… Fuck, Clint. One more fuckup. Just like getting Skye shot and then all shot up with blue alien juice. Don’t know if she’s going to be okay. It’s_

_It’s not good, and it’s on my head._

_Have an idea, but I don’t know if it’s gonna work or not. It has to. It_ has _to. We’re. No. Can’t write it. Security risk and whatthefuckever._

_I wish you were here. Wish I still had the Clint Cam. I need you tonight. Need your arms. Need_

_Wish I was dancing with you. Want your arms around me, showing me where to go, how to move. Wish I had that right still. Wish you could do that. Wish I hadn’t fucked up with you. ‘d Rather be fucking you. You fucking me. Something. Want you to hold me so close, crawl inside me. Wake me up. Fix it. Fix me._

_Can’t go back in time, but fuck. If I could. Maybe I could go back to that night you were on the bus, in my bed, my arms, my body. Want your lips. Your teeth. Your voice. Want your heart back. Wish you still loved me._

_I still love you. Should have said that to you._

_Maybe when this is over, I’ll go to Portland. SHIELD did the breaking there, so maybe she can forgive me. Maybe she’ll hold me. She never leads when we dance, though. I’ll miss that about you. Pushy._

_Think this bottle’s empty, so I’m gonna go get another one. If I have enough, I’ll quit seeing Skye bleeding out on the floor. Stop seeing you bleeding out beside her. Stop bleeding out in my own bed, in my dreams. without you._

_Fuck._

_PJC_

_***_

_Clint,_

_There's no one left in this organization that I can trust. I'm so tired of lies, of secrets, of protocol, and security checks. Once upon a time, I thought I could eventually find something normal. A home, a spouse, a dog, weekends away from the job, popcorn and movies on a couch that_ wasn’t _in my office. I had quit believing in all that after Stark, after New Mexico._

_But I think I might want that, or at least the possibility of that. Does that make me weak? Does it mean I'm too old for this? Have I gone too soft, or have I become too hard?_

_Tomorrow, I will be assigned a partner and a target, and maybe we will find the Clairvoyant. Maybe we will get some answers. Maybe I can find some clarity._

_Phil_

_***  
C, _

_Please add John Garrett to my list of greatest regrets. He grows more boorish, more tiresome with every encounter. He still thinks me too light a touch, and, completely at odds with that thought, he still thinks me cut from the same cloth as him. As if I would throw a living human being off of my plane without a parachute, no matter their crime. As if I would fake details of boring ops stories to make myself seem more interesting._

_What need would I have of trying to appear to be more badass? I always had Nat to do the intimidating and you to be amazing. And I? All I had to do was pretend to be your handler and bask in the reflected glory._

_He, on the other hand, becomes more tedious with every year that passes. If I ever try to impress the younger set with made up stories of forgotten glory, please put an arrow in my eye and put me out of everyone else’s misery. And if I am ever again stuck in a car with Garrett for more than thirty minutes, do it to put me out of my own._

_Always yours,  
P_

The stack of letters had grown alarmingly fast. A new one added every time he had a glass (or three) too many before dragging himself to his office for the night, every time he thought he was going to crack and spill across the floor in front of his team. Following the death of that boy from the Academy, during his long vigil beside Skye’s crumbling body, after the terrifying discovery in the bowels of the Safe House. Any time Phil needed solace, he pulled out another sheet of paper, clicked open his pen, and scrawled another message to the man that he had chased away. 

He still hadn’t decided if it was therapeutic or just creepy. 

A sheet of paper and barely enough time for one more missive, but Phil knew he had to write this one, had to replace the letter in his safe. Just in case… just in case the world tilted any further off-axis. Just in case they hadn’t successfully eliminated the threat at the Hub. Just in case…

_C,_

_I wrote one of these “mail if I die” letters before, ~~but it~~ and I realize that I was wrong in quite a lot of it. As you know by now, SHIELD is disintegrating around us, and Hydra is wiggling out of the walls. I only have a moment before I have to go organize my team, so this letter may remain unfinished, but I needed to make sure that, should anything happen to me, you know that I’m sorry. I was quite… messed up after getting captured by Centipede. I should have told you. I should have explained it to you._

_More than that, I should have let you explain to_ me _why you had put someone inside to watch me. Given some new information from May about my team, I think I begin to understand. And I appreciate it more than I can tell you. That you gave me an ally. A confidante. Someone I can trust. I need Skye now like never before. You still should have told me sooner, and I am still a bit angry that you didn’t. But now I understand why you put her here in the first place, at least._

_None of that matters right now, though. We have bigger ~~fish~~ OCTOPUS to fry. I know you will be doing more than your part, just as you always do. So far, I know that you can trust Victoria Hand and Felix Blake, if you need allies. And if Blake survives. You may think he’s a dick, but he’s a good agent. A very, very good agent. Garrett, well, I will tell you more about his betrayal when there is more time to write. So maybe you were right about him. I _ think _we still had that bet going, as to whether he was an asshat or a boor. You were right: definitely an asshat._

_Stay safe out there. Please. In case I never get another chance to say it, I love you. I have always loved you. You have been my best friend, my closest confidante, and the greatest lover I have ever known._

_Phondly,  
Phil_

Letter folded, sealed, labeled, and shoved in the safe, Phil tucked its predecessor in the hidden drawer. Then, pressing his palm against the folded t-shirt, he took a deep breath, trying to focus, trying to settle the racing of his heart. He whispered “Clint” once, a fetish to protect him from the danger, from the disintegration of his foundations. Then he closed the drawer softly, took one more deep breath and turned away.

There were too many thoughts to process, too many things had happened since Hand had hijacked control of the Bus. Before, really. From Ward shooting the fake Clairvoyant, finding out May had been spying, _reporting_ to Fury on Phil’s actions and mental health right up to discovering Garrett’s double-cross and _actually_ being the Clairvoyant. That discovery, while painful in its implications, actually felt… good. Now he could hate the man with a clear conscience. But it was all starting to weigh Phil down. He nearly stripped down to change right then, wanting to wrap himself in Clint’s worn shirt, wanting to press his face into it and pretend it still held traces of the gunpowder and spice smell of Clint’s skin, in spite of the frequent washings it had gone through since Clint had left; Phil did seem to sleep in in nearly every night. 

Phil stayed in his office long enough to wash his face and hands and find his jacket. As he buttoned his shirt cuffs, he began planning how to get his team and the Hub back under control. First, he had to get his Bus ready to fly in case of actionable intelligence, and then he needed to put all remaining loyal agents to work. Harder to sit around mourning their losses if they had something to keep them busy. Phil paused midstep as he remembered to hope he could find a task to keep his own mind busy. But no, that part would be easy. So much to be done and such a short time to move. He mentally tacked a shower on his to-do list; his recent exertions left a distinctive aroma.

A few hours later, napped, showered, shaved, and in a fresh suit, with SHIELD agents buzzing around him, Phil decided he was starting to feel like himself again. Barely. He smoothed a hand down the front of his crisp, blue shirt, the color just bold enough to disguise the black t-shirt underneath. He suspected it was a weakness, wearing Clint’s shirt, but he needed even the smallest comfort. One thing to remind him that there was something solid in the world. Something that had been real, true, and trustworthy. He simply needed the consolation as he watched the list of confirmed compromised or dead rolling in. Some of those people were Phil’s _friends_. How long had he known Jimenez, Freeman, or McCaslin? It hurt to know he’d miss their funerals. _Had they come to mine?_ Seeing Sitwell’s name land on both lists was agony; he’d been a traitor all along, and Phil would never be able to ask him why. 

The news that only three bases-- _Including the Hub_ \-- were firmly in SHIELD hands was… a bit of a blow. But a blow was not a fatal strike. Difficult was not impossible. Phil had sworn an oath, and he’d be _damned_ if he was going to falter now. He was an Agent of SHIELD. He was going to Do His Duty, he was going to Stay in the Fight, and, if necessary, he was going to Go Down Swinging. Or something that sounded equally inspiring. He swallowed down bile and gave Skye a tight smile.

May appeared at his elbow with a report on the repairs to the Bus, and Phil managed to control his flinch. He thought. He hoped. Well, it was understandable if he flinched. Lying, spying, controlling, manipulative…

“And the cargo ramp?” Phil interrupted his own train of thought to ask, still unable to look directly at May without wanting to shoot her with an Icer. Again. He still had just enough shame to hope his feelings on the matter didn't show.

“Fitz assures me that it will be operational…” May began, and Phil glanced toward her. 

Before he could think of a suitably offhand reply, someone barked, “Sir! Incoming transmission.”

Phil turned to the screen and immediately pasted on his best Reassuring Agent in Charge expression when Colonel Talbot’s unfortunate mustache popped up, larger than life and twice as ugly. Keeping his voice mild when his brain was screaming warnings was somewhat more difficult today than usual. Three hours sleep was apparently not enough. Not when his dreams had been populated by wicked-eyed archers with strong fingers and a mouth that…

_Not the time, Phil!_ he told himself firmly, pulling his mind out of a fantasy about intently-focused snipers and they way they handled, er, guns.

“What should I tell my men to expect?” Phil was running through the requirements to enact Odyssey Protocol before he ended the conversation with “Sounds good.”

And then his day got really bad. Between the agents who refused to run, the hydraulics and the leaking fuel line, and the soon-to-be-bitter lack of food, Phil started to curl in on himself. He set Skye to erasing all digital traces of the team, and then turned toward the cockpit to deal with May.

_I swore an oath_ , he chanted to himself as he received blow after blow, disappointment on top of crushed hope. He slipped his fingers between the buttons of his shirt, fingers stroking over the soft knit of the shirt wrapping his chest. _I will not falter. Yet._

It was the glow from his badge that held Phil back from the edge. One glimmer of hope. A faint star toward which to aim his leaky bark. God, he wanted a drink. Instead, he ducked into his office, pulling out a piece of paper and calculating how long he had until May left the cockpit to come _nag_ at him again. Yes, he knew the coordinates were a long shot. But it was the only shot they had. So he had tried to sell it with a certainty to his voice, his words, his body language.

_And it IS just like Nick…_

Phil set pen to paper, brain to ink:

_C, We’re both likely to die in this little fiasco. HYDRA wiggling out of the cracks, the government on our asses, and God knows who else gunning for us while we’re down. But I know you’re out there kicking ass and frying calamari. I know you won’t let a little thing like being a fugitive get in the way of doing what’s right. Never have before. Just one more thing I have always admired in you._

_I may be in the middle of making a Very Bad Decision. I seem to do that a lot these days. I was an ass for being so weak about the whole “my brain got dicked with and then I was shot up with alien juice” thing. YOU had it much worse during the mess leading up to New York and yet handled it-- and later me-- with so much more grace. I am sincerely sorry about the way I treated you; it was unfair, unkind, and neither a good example of friendship, nor of love. I wish I had remembered what you’d been through. I wish I’d trusted you then like I am trusting you right now._

_Finding out, as I have quite recently, that May has been lying to me, spying on me,_ reporting _on me, trying to weasel her way into confidences to examine my state of mind or something equally intrusive has shown me the difference in watching me out of personal concern and watching me for, I don’t know,_ nefarious _purposes. Your use of S as an informant on my team, your use of the Phil Pheed camera in my office, sending your Russian associate onto my Bus with surveillance gear becomes less of a betrayal and more of a gesture of concern. Of, dare I say it? Of love._ Was _that what it was? Did you love me before I so thoroughly broke the bonds between us? I wish I had seen it before, because I loved you, too._

_No, there is no past tense: I love you, you gorgeous thing, and I hope you never doubt that. Also..._

He dropped the letter into his drawer and pushed it shut, before draping himself comfortably in his chair to watch the clouds roll away under the plane. He had about thirty seconds before May came in to “register her concerns” or however she worded it this time to make himself look as if he’d been lounging in deep thought all along. Whatever she said, he knew she would try to manipulate him into telling her something personal as a way to spy on him and presume some intimacy that he did not feel. And that was still the thing that burned the most: the way she had dug for confidences, pried into his _feelings_ under the guise of friendship. That she presumed on their years of association to get under Phil’s skin, inside his brain. 

And then she reported to Fury about it. He had no doubts that every word he had told her in confidence was relayed straight to Fury’s office. Possibly to Maria Hill herself.

_Thank God I never mentioned hosting Barton on the Bus._ Phil felt his frown deepen as he pondered the clusterfuck if that had come out.

When May did step in the door, Phil was sure he was ready for anything that came out of her mouth. braced for her faux sympathy, for her prying. He was wrong. There was no way he could have been prepared for her to suggest that she was confiscating his weapon. He did, for one long moment, wish that she’d try to force the issue. He was fairly certain that he could take her down and take her out, especially given her recently admitted sentiment for him. She would probably pull her punches; Phil was no gentleman when the lady in question was an agent. And a lying, sneaking spy to boot.

He let her ramble for just a moment about the possibility that it was HYDRA who had planted this sense of optimism, that it was HYDRA that was making him trust so completely that Fury had sent him that message. As if he hadn’t already entertained that thought. He would never admit to that aloud, however, knowing he had to keep up his pretense of confidence, of certainty. As if his own sense of purpose wasn’t the only thing keeping him from curling up in the floor of his shower and bawling. And then she dropped her bombshell that there was _someone else_ who might have been involved in the rewiring of his brain. After all but throwing her out of the office, Phil drew the letter he’d started back out. His hand was shaking as he drew his pen from the inner pocket of his jacket.

_How many people played around in my head? I might be wrong here, babe. I might be way off track. This may not be me at all. But I have to continue to act as if it is. I have to. I have to keep going or I will bog down and never move again._

_If I’m leading my team, if I’m leading our girl into a trap, please forgive me. This faith, this trust, this hope is all that I have left. Everything is slipping through my fingers. Who am I? What am I supposed to do?_

_Stay safe. Please, God, stay safe. I have to believe that you’re out there, healthy and whole and hale. That you’re fighting and winning and that you have our dog back as well as your girl. That you're with your partner and that you’re going to make it. This is far from the most dangerous position the two of you have ever been in. I am trusting that you both will make it through. That belief will keep me on my feet. That belief will keep me warm._

_I love you. Phil_

He hesitated with the letter in his hand, hovering it over the stack of too-personal, too-intimate letters that he never intended to send.

On a whim, he pulled the Bus schematic off the wall and drew the Aftermath envelope out of the safe. He stuffed it and the newest letter into a second envelope, labeling and sealing it. It was such a light packet for being so full of Phil. For trying to carry everything he thought, felt, knew. With a shake of his head, Phil shoved the whole thing back into the safe. He hoped that, even if everything went to hell-- _further to hell_ \-- this one directive would be followed. That this one letter would make it to its recipient. That he could mend one mistake in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only Light in the Darkness S1E19 
> 
> The Cellist

Phil’s stomach roiled when Ward returned, battered and bloody, to announce the collapse of the Fridge. The death of Victoria Hand hit Phil hard; He’d come to respect Victoria as a person, on top of how much he’d always admired her work as Agent Hand. The collapse of SHIELD had highlighted all the positive traits that Clint had often praised in her. She was good, thorough, dedicated, loyal, competent, and tough. She was also the last person besides Agent Hill and Nick Fury that he knew still outranked him. She was the only person that Phil’d known he could count on to assist him in keeping things going. Phil gritted his teeth and kept his outward reaction mostly in check. There would be time to mourn, to be angry. Later. 

He turned his attention to the escaped inmates, passing over the theft of tech and weaponry. That would have to be rounded up, of course, but the escapees were much more worrying. The thought of all of those _psychopaths_ out and wandering, free to steal, to stalk, to kill, to...

 _OhGodAudrey!_

The suddenness of that thought knocked loose some of the inertia that had been weighing on Phil since arriving at Providence. He began planning: Put Skye on threat assessment with her astonishing ability to filter large quantities of data quickly and efficiently. Wish, for one wild, slightly hysterical moment, that he could still draw on Sitwell’s uncanny analytical abilities. Swallow down the nausea associated with remembering Jasper was HYDRA. Gulp down another wave remembering Jasper was dead. Phil reminded himself he could hyperventilate all he wanted, but _later_ , when there weren’t so many things that needed to be done, that needed his attention. 

First, though, first Phil had to know the status of one man, find out if a promise had been broken. If SHIELD’s failure would keep Phil from keeping his word. If Marcus Daniels was on the list...

_Dammit, I don’t break promises._

Skye worked her usual magic with the computer, and there was Daniels’ mug shot staring up from the screen. Phil felt the telltale sting in the back of his throat, and he steeled himself not to vomit in the canteen. Damn, it sucked to be right, sometimes.

“That’s him.” Even Phil could hear the roughness in his voice. He took a short breath and instructed Skye to crosscheck the crime databases. He volunteered Koenig to assist her and then began debating with himself. Phil had given his word, years before, and to keep it, he would have to see to Daniels. The team was starting to crack, hiding as they were, and Phil knew they could use the action. Skye needed to work, and May should stay with her, protect her. Bonus, it would keep get Phil away from May for long enough for him to get a grip on his anger with her. With Ward for backup, even injured as he was, Providence base would be safe enough in May’s hands. Koenig, well, he was loyal. He was clearly _insane_ , but loyalty was worth a lot. 

While his team began Orientation (and what kind of term was _that_ for sitting through the most grueling lie detector test ever invented?), Phil paced and drank coffee. By the second person in, Phil stopped pacing in favor of sitting at a table in the canteen, but he couldn’t force himself to put down the coffee. For a brief moment, he wished he smoked. Or knitted. Or did card tricks. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to distract him from the complexity of his own thoughts, from his own confused emotions.

Audrey had been a wonderful diversion from his life at SHIELD. The look of trust and admiration she had leveled on him when she opened her door to his knock had been flattering, and her smiles and small flirtations were addictive. He’d enjoyed the chance to be normal, to be simply Phil, going to watch a lovely woman play the cello, taking her to dinner afterward, telling jokes that made her laugh, made her eyes sparkle at him. He’d also appreciated having someone in his life that he could actually talk about, tell his coworkers and friends about. When Pepper had first asked him about a significant other, he’d very nearly told her about Clint, about the friend who never failed to make Phil feel like a… 

_Stop it, Phillip._

Clint was… _private_. Had been ever since the discussion with Fury following the sex-injury incident soon after they’d added physical intimacy to their relationship. Clint collected an eye wound while Phil had fucked him with more force than he had previously employed, Clint’s attempts to stifle himself making a pillow come undone even as he had also come, er, undone. Fury had told Phil to keep their escapades far away from SHIELD, and they had. Well, mostly. Sometimes. The secrecy had made the jump into Phil’s outside life, too-- logical, as most of his friends were related to the job. And Audrey, well, Audrey had known their relationship wasn’t exclusive, although Phil had never explained to her who his other lover was, and he never asked about any of hers.

Anyway, long story short, Audrey was safe to talk about, to describe to his friends and coworkers. Audrey was Phil’s little slice of normalcy in his decidedly abnormal job and life. 

He nearly knocked the coffee cup off as he propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. He tried to draw in all the memories he had of Audrey: The way she felt in his arms, pliant and soft. Her voice whispering words of adoration, of tender praise. Her hands skimming across his shoulders, resting on his arms, cupping his face as he kissed her, tasted the fullness of her lips. And he did miss her. He missed the gentleness, her sweetness, being looked at like he had hung the stars. He missed the simplicity of their time together.

It was an easier loss to focus on, shallower than the loss of SHIELD, smaller than the crater left by the impact of Clint's absence.

After an endless agony of wondering what would happen and regretting what already had, Phil climbed to his feet, swallowed the bitter dregs of coffee directly from the pot, and went to collect Trip and FitzSimmons for the mission brief. For the mission to Portland. Where they were all likely to learn a bit more about Phil than he was entirely comfortable with them knowing. Even if what they would likely learn was only one small part of the truth of Phil’s heart.

After the briefing May tried to stop him, tried to insist she should be piloting, that Phil _needed_ her on this mission. Phil bit his lip, holding in the “fuck off, May” that sounded rather more like Clint than Phil in his head. Instead, he cut off her speech about loyalty or protection or whatever it was, snarling out his displeasure, his distrust, his anger. His snappish response about her love of following orders was probably a bit too harsh, but it shut her up, so Phil decided to consider it a win. He was still so angry with her, not only for spying on him, but for knowing the truth, knowing how desperately he had been searching for answers and for keeping that truth away from him. Remembering her now-fake-seeming compassion made his stomach churn, and he was hard-pressed to keep from shooting her with an Icer. Again. It was becoming a familiar urge.

The rest of the team was trickier to explain himself to, Skye in particular. She was too good at reading him. He explained that the mission was being undertaken out of duty, a need for action. He left out his personal connection, and hoped it didn’t show on his face. Skye’s eyebrows folded together, and he knew he’d utterly failed to hide his emotions.

_I’m coming, Audrey. I’m so sorry this is coming back to haunt you._

The three who were not going were waiting to see them off as he led the splinter team toward the hangar to board the Jumpjet. Skye’s expression was curious, Ward was implacable as always, and May… Phil gave her the briefest stare until she averted her eyes. He took his victory and turned away. 

_Suck it, May._ And how much time had Phil actually spent with Clint over the years, if he was starting to think in Clintisms when irritated?

He gritted his jaw, hoping his expression conveyed his disdain. Daring May to decide if she was willing to follow his orders or get the hell out of his way. _At least I don’t have to worry about her learning too much about Audrey. And about me._

The flight was not too uncomfortable, other than the jumpseat; jumpseats were not designed for actual butts. Neither Leo nor Jemma seemed to pick up on the things Phil wasn’t saying. They didn’t respond to the undercurrent of warmth he was trying to swallow, and neither of them noticed his accidental emphasis on Audrey’s unforgetability. At least, neither of them asked what he meant. He hoped he managed to swallow down the the warm smile that tried to bubble up when he thought about the first time they’d met. Audrey opening her door to him and the blinding glow of her smile. The warmth that had blossomed through his chest when he asked her to trust him and she assured him she did. 

And yet, forgetting her, getting over her was apparently not impossible. Phil had forgotten Audrey. Well, not _forgotten_ , exactly. Since his recovery, he had thought of her occasionally, even though he had never really considered going to see her. Certainly, he hadn’t _needed_ to see her. Not when Clint had been there, so warm, so beautiful, so willing. Not when Clint had added tenderness to the scorching fire he had always brought to Phil’s life. And what did _that_ mean for Clint and Phil? If their relationship had progressed from purely friendship, to friendship with a side of physical, to friendship with a side of physical and an extra helping of caring, of concern…? Phil cut himself off with a shake of his head. He couldn’t afford to be thinking of Clint, of what he’d done to Clint (what he’d done _with_ Clint) right now. 

_Focus on Audrey. Focus on Daniels. Focus on a problem he could solve today._

That thought brought him up short. “A problem he could solve today” implied that his other problem could be solved… someday. That maybe he could fix things. That… 

_Stop._ Phil took a deep breath. After having his loyalty questioned, after being called a liar, after being driven away, Clint was not coming back. Phil had made sure of that by hitting every hot button Clint had, and Phil knew all of them. In his desperation to keep Clint at arm’s length, he’d managed to shove him out the door, off the Bus, and out of Phil’s life.

Phil sighed heavily and tried to sink deeper into mission-mindset. 

He twisted his hands together, nervous and then more nervous as they neared their landing site. He was trying _so hard_ not to think about why he hadn’t seen her in so long. Thinking of his death, his recovery, what had happened since-- that way lay madness. Again. Phil needed to be thinking clearly. Or, at least, he needed to be thinking of Audrey

_I said I would keep her safe. I promised she would be safe!_

Phil closed his eyes as FitzSimmons sank into their technobabble bubble, arguing and debating their energy delivery mechanism. Picturing the last time he had seen Audrey was easy. The way her hair cascaded down her slender neck, the sweep of her arm as she drew the bow over the strings, the way her eyelashes fanned across the perfection of her cheekbones as she closed her eyes, losing herself in the music. He could see it all clearly. He had taken her roses, a giant red armload, and she had blushed and smiled as he praised her performance. Dinner was relaxed, with casual conversation, and she had laughed at his laughter as he told her about the Printer Incident in accounting. 

He tried to cut the memory before that night, when he had gone home with her, when she found the bruises across his shoulders and biceps. She was so tender over them, clucking about the danger of his job. He shivered as he thought of how the bruising to his shoulders had _actually_ happened. How he and Clint had been in the same country for the first time in months. How they hadn’t been able to keep their hands to themselves long enough to get off base. Clint’s impish smirk as he’d jammed the doorknob of the nearest supply trailer, and they’d both hoped it would do. And then Phil pictured Clint arching above him, later, in a hotel across town, hands knotted in his own hair as he tried to keep from flying apart while Phil growled demands and left bruises of his own on Clint’s hips and thighs.

Her touching Clint’s marks, fussing over them had been… weird. Even if they both knew they were not exclusive it was _very weird_. But he hadn’t been able to tell her. How could he have explained Clint? There were no words to explain the years of camaraderie, the friendship and inside jokes, the teamwork on and off-mission. No way to describe the relationship Phil had been afraid of analyzing too deeply, of studying too carefully. Too afraid of breaking it apart by paying attention to it.

Phil felt himself smile sadly around his concern for what they would find in Portland. He didn’t know how to explain Clint back then, for damn sure. Phil knew many words to describe Agent Barton: competent, loyal, strategically-sound. And there were other words for Hawkeye: accurate, flashy, principled. Since Phil’s death, he’d added a few words to his descriptors for _Clint_ : warm, compassionate, understanding, faithful, loving. Ultimately, it was the lack of examination that had ended things and ended them so badly. If Phil had only realized sooner, he could have--

_Stop._

He wished he had Agent Barton on this mission, when so much of Phil’s self-worth was riding on the outcome. If Phil failed to protect Audrey now, if SHIELD’s failure-- Daniels’ escape-- meant that Phil _couldn’t_ protect her, Phil would never forgive himself. He wished he still had the luxury of calling in Clint as backup, but that option was gone. Between the fall of SHIELD, the rise of HYDRA, the way Phil had chased Clint away with angry words and furious accusations, Clint was gone. Was not coming back. No matter how useful his bow would be, no matter how helpful it would be to have Clint’s unconventional strategic assessment. No matter how good it would feel to have Clint’s hands against Phil’s skin, holding his arm, touching his face, stroking down his chest… 

_STOP, Phillip!_

Clint had _left_. And Audrey was in danger. And Phil needed to sort himself out before he got her killed, himself killed. Before he got his team killed. 

With a shaky breath and a hand smoothed through his hair, Phil was himself again. He put aside the puzzle of _feelings_ and focused on his objectives. First, protect Audrey from Daniels. Second, find Daniels and contain him (also, figure out what they were supposed to _do_ with him when they did capture him). Third, get out of Portland without Audrey learning that Phil was alive. There was still too much to do, too many questions to answer, too much danger. And Phil wasn’t sure what his next mission would be, or if there were more missions to plan. It wasn’t fair to waltz back into her life while his own was so unsettled. What if she wanted to pick up where they had left off? What if she didn’t? What if _Phil_ didn’t?

Night had fallen by the time they touched down. Phil rented two cars under a false ID with a fake credit card that Natasha had set up for him one night while they had planned their exit strategies. Since Skye had deleted all trace of the team, Phil was doubly grateful for Natasha and Clint’s paranoia and expertise. The others were non-people until Skye finished setting up new public identities for them, but Phil had a dozen personas he could dip into. If things got hot enough, he could borrow a few from Clint, or even a couple from Natasha. They all used the names interchangeably, even if Clint was usually Pablo, Nat was usually Irene, and Phil usually stuck to something Western European. 

They followed a plan outlined on the flight. Trip and Simmons went in the lead vehicle to collect Audrey. They planned to check her home first, followed by the track she ordinarily ran (Audrey _was_ a creature of habit). Phil and Fitz followed in the second car with the Dwarfs. He stayed back as much as he could, not wanting Audrey to see his face. Okay, not wanting to see hers. He tried not to think about that too deeply just then. This _had_ to be a normal mission. He had to stay disconnected. He had to let Audrey go on thinking he was dead, stay out of her life, let her keep going on with her own. Surely she had healed by now.

“We’ve got her, sir.” Jemma’s voice crackled through Phil’s earpiece. “Daniels was right on her tail.”

The headlights of the lead vehicle flashed in Phil’s vision as it raced past, whisking Audrey away from immediate danger. Stomping down on all questions of feelings, of relationships, Phil climbed out of the driver’s seat and got his ass handed to him by Daniels. Phil peeled himself off the ground and thought longingly of reinforcements. Of being able to call SHIELD. Of being able to call Clint... 

_Concentrate on Audrey. And how the hell we’re supposed to find Daniels now._

Phil didn't allow himself to think again until the team was holed up safely in a partially-completed apartment building. There, just one unit away from Audrey, watching the sun rise over Portland, Phil felt his heart break for what was surely the last time.

_How many times can a damaged heart break before it stops beating?_

At first, he'd been entirely focused on the problems presented by Daniels' increase in power. Was SHIELD really responsible for his new abilities? Were they grooming him for something like the Avengers Initiative? Or was it HYDRA, the wolf in... slightly more wolfish clothing hiding in SHIELD's wolf pack? And, if he could absorb that much power, fire it back at them, what else could Daniels do? How would they stop him? How could Phil keep her safe if they couldn't?

He let the gentle familiarity of Audrey's voice sooth his frayed nerves as she spoke to his team. She had always been comforting, gentle. Had always known how to dampen Phil's need for action into an appreciation for calm, peace, a quiet in the storm of his work-crazy life. But the meaning of her words finally broke through, and he ripped the comm out of his ear, unable to listen anymore. 

Audrey's voice was so full of _love_. So fond and warm. So... possessive. And they hadn't been that. They had been together only when time and duty allowed, and Phil's job had never left much space. When he was with her, he'd allowed himself fantasies of comfort and warmth, of waking up in the same bed more than a week running. Of getting a dog or a cat or, hell, a hamster. Something that required the kind of attention he couldn't ever give anything. 

_Except your team,_ whispered a voice in Phil's head that sounded an awful lot like Clint's and a little bit like Skye's.

"Never lied to her." Ha. There was a joke. _The_ joke. Here he stood, so near to her, alive, breathing, imagining the comfort of her arms around his shoulders, her lips against his face. So near that he imagined he could smell her shampoo, taste her mouth. And he wouldn't go in there to present her with the truth. Couldn't go. Didn't dare untell the lie. 

Phil managed to swallow the hysteria that bubbled in his throat when Fitz asked, oh so delicately, if Phil and Audrey had been involved. How to say "She was my socially acceptable distraction from the fucked up life at SHIELD and the incredibly inappropriate but completely fulfilling relationship I didn't realize I was in until it was over?" And therein lay the sharpest barb. 

He tried to convince himself that staying dead, staying away from her was for her own good, for her protection. 

"She's healing." Phil knew he was trying to convince himself more than Fitz. "We should let her get on with that." 

Better the comfortable lie than the painful truth. Better to have lost the hero she thought he was than the mortal man with the emotional perception of a teaspoon he was discovering himself to be. He had been very fond of her. He still was. But not... It hadn't been... Fondness wasn't love. 

At times since his, er, death and recovery, Phil’d nearly forgotten Audrey. Caught up as he was with the Job and the jobs and the man with the ever-changing eyes and the hands that--

_Don’t go there, Phil. But if I’d just noticed sooner… If I’d just realized before I shredded what we had..._

Not the time to focus on that. Not now. There were too many things that required thoughts instead of feelings, and Phil needed to keep his head clear. Had to shut off the what-ifs and could've-beens.

Part of him was relieved when Fitz interrupted his self-recrimination with a plan that might work. On the other hand, agreeing to put Audrey in the line of fire was one of the hardest things Phil had ever done. He didn’t want to see her sitting alone on a stage as bait, even though he knew his team-- and himself-- would be on hand, watching. He wasn't sure Audrey could do it, would do it, was brave enough to take the chance. And that, in the end, was the problem. Danger was part of Phil’s life, and anyone who couldn’t face the risks was best, _safest_ , well out of it.

But, in the end, she agreed to be the bait, and Phil steeled himself to take the risk with her life. If this didn't work...

_He promised me he would stop Daniels. Phil never lied to me._

He stood in the sound booth, listening to her play, thinking of Fitz’s question.

Why _didn’t_ he just go down and tell Audrey he was alive? He hadn’t intended to lie to her. He knew it would hurt her to know he was alive, had _been alive_ and kept it from her. And it would hurt her when he left again. 

And he was leaving. This job, _The Job_ was the most important thing in Phil’s world. Not just now, but always. It was… it was worth more than the soft domestic dreams. Right now, especially, when there was nothing left of SHIELD but him and his tiny team. Still, if SHIELD was over, even then, Phil knew he wouldn't be coming back. This was not the life for him. He would die in the field, or, if he survived these years, behind a desk; retirement had never really been a part of his game plan.

Phil watched the sweep of her shoulder as she drew the bow across the strings. She was still so beautiful. Here, from the soundbooth, was his first chance to really look at her. She looked healthy, happy. He smiled, letting the music warm something inside. No, he wouldn't tell her. He just needed to know she was alive. That she was safe. And then she could slip back into her place as a happy memory of bliss in his chaos.

Lights began to go out, and Phil felt his smile fall away. He trusted that Fitz had everything right, took one deep breath, and flipped the switches to, hopefully, put Daniels down for good. Phil watched Daniels take his team down, one by one, and rushed out of the soundbooth with his heart in his throat to scoop up the light from where it had tumbled from Jemma’s hands. Sucking in a breath and refusing to believe that he could fail, Phil aimed it for Daniels’ back. Time stood still as Daniels left the world in a puff of gamma radiation and the inverse of light, sending Audrey flying across the stage. Phil ran, heart stuttering in his chest, terror leaving him shaking and cold as he scooped up her limp hand feeling for a pulse, then he suddenly felt ten years younger when he felt the telltale flutter under his fingers. 

As he had the day she left him in New York, he pressed his lips to her temple, savoring the scent of her hair for just one short breath, before he ran, getting away before she awoke. Trusting Simmons to take care of her. Wishing, for one wild, desperate moment, that he could watch her face as she blinked her eyes open, as she reached out to hold him. Wishing that he could spill all his heartache and loss and the burning need for comfort. That he could tell her about Clint and how much of a fool Phil really was.

_Not the time for a life-altering revelation, Philip._

He let the kiss, his whispered confession, and the last press of his fingers against hers be his goodbye. And it really was goodbye this time. 

The flight back to Providence was both too short and too long. 

Phil deflected when Fitz asked if anything was wrong.

 _I’m an ass and a heel, and my very existence is a lie for a woman who said I never lied to her._ Phil thought. _I lied to the man I love above anyone else in the world, the only person who would ever understand-- who_ has _understood-- how I feel about the job. About myself. And I’m hurting so deeply right now that I can barely breathe._

“She said I never lied to her,” Phil began, and he began cataloguing all the ways that was untrue. And then he sighed and admitted that he wanted to go tell her the truth. Wished that he could. Even though he knew he never would. Knew he couldn’t. For one minute, he wished he could just go show her that he was alive, end things between them on a better note than being “dead.”

Another thought clicked into place. A certainty that he _would_ be able to speak to Clint, at least. Contact him and apologize. Explain. Seek forgiveness. But to do that, Phil had to accept himself, his life, Clint’s life… and May’s life, too. Clearly, there was a lot of forgiving to do. Starting with himself.

Simmons interrupted Phil’s thoughts. He unbuckled from the jumpseat, excusing himself to go see Trip. He hoped that _this_ time, FitzSimmons would work out this strange distance between them. That Fitz would suck it up and just tell the girl how he was feeling. Because Phil was clearly such an expert on relationships and _feelings_. Ha.

_sigh_

But he didn’t go to the cockpit, finding instead a corner to lean in, to watch the clouds trail below them as the sun rose, turning the sky to red and gold. Crossing his arms over his chest, Phil closed his eyes and composed another letter, one more to add to the Aftermath pile:

_Dear C,_

_I went to Oregon today. Rescued A. Again. Same danger as before. She is still beautiful. She is still gentle and elegant. She is still fond of me. Fonder, perhaps, than I knew. I wish I could tell her the truth. Wish I could offer her that comfort. I think she would forgive me for the necessary lie._

_But that is the painful truth. My lie to her was necessary, when I can’t stay with her. Can’t slow down enough to even think of her. I have been so focused on “Truth at Any Cost” that I forgot that our lives sometimes require a judicious application of lies, of shadows and hidden truths. That sometimes we have to be dishonest to protect, to guard, to be the SHIELD we swore to be._

_M felt that her orders were for my protection, for hers, for our teams’. She’s a soldier, and you know what that means. M follows orders. Without question, if they come from high enough. I know this about her. Everyone knows this about her. I cannot hate her for simply following her nature, although I am still disgusted by her manipulation of me, of the way she pushed for an intimacy that, looking back, may have been more for her own sake than that of her orders. But that is her nature, too, to feel too deeply. So I can’t be mad at her for it._

_Likewise, I cannot be angry at you for following your own protective tendencies. That loyalty, that willingness to do anything for those you care about is one of your finest qualities. When I think of what I said to you, how I questioned you, questioned your trustworthiness, your motivations… How did you not hit me on your way out? I was way out of line. I forgive you the lie, and I wish my crimes were as easily understandable, as easily forgiven. I wish I could take back what I said, how I acted. I wish I could do _something_ to make it up to you, to earn your forgiveness. I know that, once your trust is broken, there is no going back. And the way I broke your trust-- lying in the face of your truth, anger to your willingness to come clean, spite and intentional misunderstanding to keep you away from me when I should have let you in, should have trusted-- That was unforgivable. _

_Watching Audrey play today, I realized a few things. First, I realized that the old infatuation with her has faded to nonexistence. I am fond of her still, but I am no longer enamoured. I’m not certain I ever was. Clearly, my feelings for her were not as strong as hers were for me. Secondly, I discovered that the reason I was never going to love her is quite simple: I love my job, this fucked up life that is being a SHIELD agent, more. And, finally, I came to the one truth behind all of my lies and evasions: you. You have been part of my life, inside and outside of the job, for so long, I can barely separate the two._

_But now I have to, because you are gone and the job remains. In spite of the chaos, in spite of the foundations crumbling underneath us, in spite of everything, I will remain an Agent. I wish like hell you were fighting at my side, but I will trust that you’re fighting ON my side, and that will be enough._

_Just now, the future is looking very bleak. I don’t know if we will both survive long enough for me to tell you these things in person. To apologize to you. Even if you fling it back in my face, which is nothing less than I deserve, I would like you to know. I am so sorry. And I do love you. But… I understand that I broke it. Broke you. Broke us. I wish I had been clever enough, mature enough to see what we had before it was gone. Before I destroyed it. When there was still some chance of gaining your forgiveness. Of keeping your love._

_Stay safe and be well._

_Phondly,  
Phil_

He polished the language in his head for the rest of the ride, ready to commit it to paper when they landed.

But the hangar was empty. The Bus was gone. All thoughts of letters and love and Clint were pushed out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The was the chapter that held things up so long. Until we knew for sure that he wasn't going back to Audrey, we had to brace to send him back and break his heart all over again. But, in the end, the show left plenty of room for Phil's love of his job and his love of his man. 
> 
> One chapter left, and then countdown to Recovery, the finale of the Two-Man Rule series!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing Personal, Ragtag, Beginning of the End, S1 E20, 21, 22

It had been twenty-four hours since Phil had kissed Audrey’s temple for goodbye (and it _was_ goodbye this time; of that, at least, Phil was now certain), and the world had gone both completely sideways and rightside up. For the first time since waking up in the theta wave machine with his rediscovered memories of the surgery that kept him alive, Phil knew where he stood. That felt like both a gift and a terrible burden. But at least there were _finally_ some answers. Finally a glimmer of direction for his next move.

He had gotten Skye back, saved her from whatever twisted plot Ward had for her. She appeared unharmed, but Phil knew it would take time for the lost look in her eyes to fade; he knew what it was to be betrayed. He only hoped that it would be the last time it would happen to Skye. Futile hope, but he wanted to wrap her up and keep her safe. Keep his whole team safe. Ward’s betrayal of Skye seemed so _personal_ though, almost intimate. Phil would destroy him for that.

His home was gone, soaring off toward the horizon with Traitor Ward and Deathlok on board, but at least he’d saved Skye from their clutches. And Lola. Well, Lola was mostly saved. Ward, on the other hand was going to suffer. Painfully. At Phil’s own hands, if he had his way. People _touching_ Lola, leaving greasy fingerprints on her perfectly polished paint, was bad enough. Ward actually shooting her? Phil still felt queasy. 

Phil’s team was no longer a finger on the mighty hand of SHIELD. Instead, they’d been relegated to nothing but a lonely little splinter cell of vigilantes, and his job was drawing to a close. Well, according to Hill, at least. Honestly, Phil knew he would never be able to walk away, to let HYDRA run loose, to _stop being an Agent of SHIELD_ until Fury himself appeared and told Phil to stand down. As that hadn’t happened yet, Phil was going to continue to operate as if it wouldn’t happen. _Couldn’t_ happen. Nick wouldn’t do that to Phil. Surely not, after everything Phil had given, had been through. No. For now at least, Phil would remain an Agent.

And then there was the matter of Phil’s brain. The new information on the USB drive May had collected from Phil’s grave… actually, it explained quite a lot. 

_And there was a GRAVE? Really? Would it be gauche to visit it with flowers and a Captain America action figure. Probably, but Natasha would find it hilarious. If I ever get to go, I have to take Nat._

The recorded message, the message _Phil_ had recorded, resigning from Project TAHITI explained why Fury had, eventually, even if it was grudging, given Phil his medical file in the end. If Phil had been trusted with the project before, well, then why _wouldn’t_ Fury trust him with it again. Especially when the results were not exactly something Phil could escape. So long as he stayed alive. This time. And the description of the side effects from the procedure, Phil’s own recommendation that the project be discontinued and never used on another person explained the lack of personnel at the Guest House. Explained why it had all been hidden from Phil in the first place.

The phrase “to potentially save a mortally wounded Avenger” echoed over and over as Phil paced his hotel room, from the door to the desk, along the bed to the nightstand and back. Not that Phil would be _happy_ if something were to happen to Stark, Banner, Captain Rogers, or Thor. But they were all protected to some degree: Tony by his suit, Banner by the Hulk, Cap’s serum, and Thor’s demigod status. The most vulnerable of the team were Phil’s own two responsibilities. Had been his responsibilities. He knew the look in his eyes as he’d stared into the camera, the look as he’d recommended the termination of Project TAHITI. 

It was an expression he’d felt on his face a thousand times. It was the sadness and desperation that washed over him when Natasha was in danger. It was the blinding panic, the fear of knowing that there was nothing he could do to help Clint and so had to leave his health, his _life_ to chance. It was disgust at Phil’s own desperation, at his habit of pushing too far, risking too much. The certain knowledge that, for Clint, Phil would have bent every moral code he possessed. Phil was sure he would do as much for Natasha, between his own love of her and her importance to Clint.

Phil finished tugging off his loosened necktie, rolling it neatly and tucking it into a drawer, before divesting himself of his jacket. He unbuttoned his cuffs and stretched, arms high over his head. There was still a slight tightness to the scar tissue on his chest, but, otherwise, his heart, his ribs, his lungs all seemed to be just fine. And now he knew why. Why he was fine. Why Fury was worried enough to set watch over Phil. May’s personal digging still rankled, as she _was_ reporting behind his back, but bygones. Bygones. She _had_ more than made up for it by retrieving the USB stick. It was enough to show her loyalty, at least, and that was more than Phil hoped for from _anyone_ these days.

He began to unbutton his shirt, thinking of May’s spying, prying, feigned professional interest in Phil’s inner thoughts. And then he thought of his other watcher. Of Clint keeping tabs via the tiny camera in the model of the Bus. Of Clint sending someone who could watch Phil’s six. Of the Clint Cam, so they could watch each other’s faces. Could stare into each other’s eyes. And Clint’s sea glass eyes and soft mouth, of Clint’s hands stroking reverently over Phil’s scars, his mouth tracing the jagged lines… With a shock, Phil jerked his mind back to the present. Somehow, he’d divested himself of his shirt and was standing in the middle of his room, naked from the waist up, running his fingers lightly over his own torso. 

He was also suddenly rather _interested_ in his own touch. 

Shaking his head to clear it, Phil forced his hands down and away from his skin. Clearly, the relief of finding answers-- combined with relief at getting Skye back-- was having an effect on Phil. Relief. That was all it was. He dug through his go-bag that he’d grabbed out of his room as they’d raced away from Providence. He could feel himself melt a bit, his smile going fuzzy as the edges as he pulled out a pair of soft sleep pants and Clint’s t-shirt. God, this t-shirt. Phil knew it was getting ridiculous, how much he wore it, how often he washed it in the sink, wringing it out and laying it out to dry by morning. He quickly stripped out of the rest of his suit, draping the pants with his jacket over the back of the chair and pulling on his nightwear. Going to the bathroom to brush his teeth, Phil contemplated a shower and a session with his libido, his memories, and his right hand, but decided against it. He still had too much to consider for the night.

The first goal was, of course, uploading Skye’s trojan. And _Damn!_ That girl was good. He really did need to let Clint know that she was adequately appreciated. That Clint’s gift to Phil was both magnanimous and exactly perfect. That Phil would try to be the same for Skye. That he wanted another chance to show Clint just how appreciative he was. How much he trusted Clint’s judgement.

_Not Clint. Skye. Trojan. USB drive._

Phil put his subconscious to work, knowing that there was a solution to the problem and that he probably already knew it, even if he hadn’t consciously realized it yet. Tomorrow, there would be a briefing to coordinate whatever his brain dredged up. There would hopefully be a new angle on chasing the Bus. He needed to collect a couple more credit cards and identity documents that he knew were squirrelled away nearby. And then there was the matter of finding a bodyshop for Lola, one that wouldn’t touch the tech, simply replace her bullet-scarred glass, repaint her body. He’d get Fitz to work on her damaged systems.

_You’re going to hurt, Grant Ward. You’re going to hurt worse than Lola. And I’m going to smile while I figure out creative ways to make it happen._

Poor Lola. And Phil still hadn’t gotten to spread Clint across the glossy red hood, to snap a photo of him posed like every dream from teenaged-Phil’s fevered imagination. Still hadn’t gotten Clint to give him…

 _To hell with it._ Phil clicked on the bathroom light. _Might as well give it up, take a shower, and go to bed._

 

The sun was thundering through cracks in the curtains when Phil woke the next morning, sprawled across his bed wearing only a pair of boxers and hugging Clint’s t-shirt to his chest. Rolling to his back, Phil dropped the shirt over his face and stretched, feeling relaxed to his toes. For the first time since waking up on the flight home from Tahiti-- _the transport back from the Guest House_ Phil mentally amended-- his body felt wholly his own. 

He shivered, remembering the mental images he’d rifled through the night before. Pictures of Clint spread across bedspreads in ratty hotels around the world. Having his own chest pinned against the walls of closets and out-of-the-way halls, held in place by an immovable hand between his shoulder blades. Images of Clint across his desk, snarling encouragement and playful insults between heaving breaths. The treasured memory of Clint wearing an eyepatch and nothing else, sprawled across Phil’s bed for the first time, singing Billy Joel songs as he jerked himself lazily while Phil tried to fill out paperwork in the chair in the corner.

After his shower, crawling between the sheets with his legs trembling and his eyes already half-closed, Phil had shifted to other thoughts of Clint. Remembered Clint hogging all the pillows, forcing Phil to use Clint’s generous chest to cradle his own head. Remembered the way Clint would make tactical suggestions, always without preamble and seemingly apropos of nothing (“The rooftop to the south will have more cover,” Clint once said between lazy kisses). Phil’d wished he could run the half-formed ideas churning in his mind across Clint, let the flow of words between them midwife a plan from the tangle of Phil’s thoughts. He wished Clint was in his bed to sit bolt upright from a sound sleep and announce the one tiny detail they had both been missing all along that would assure the success of the mission.

Alone in his hotel room, Phil shoved himself to sitting, then rolled to his feet and pulled the t-shirt over his head in one fluid movement. Apparently memories of Clint were almost as helpful as the reality had been. 

_Cybertek_ Clearly, the night had reset his brain. _How the hell did I miss Cybertek!_

Sleep pants were snagged off the bathroom floor with one foot while Phil brushed his teeth, mumbling around his toothbrush as he pulled them on. 

“Whiteboard, markers, all the gear we can find, identification…” He spat in the sink. “Pancakes. Pancakes!”

He detoured to pull his wallet out of his slacks before banging on the connecting door to the next room.

“Deathlok was spotted in…” May stopped, mid-sentence and her eyebrows knit together. “You’re not dressed yet?”

“I was up late. Thinking.” Phil held out a credit card he’d retrieved from a small stash of money and identification that Clint had hidden a couple of years before; every SHIELD agent had an escape plan. Phil’s just happened to be more sophisticated than most, since it was designed by the three person team that was the pinnacle of the espionage game. After Clint came along (and later Natasha) Phil had not planned on leaving by himself. 

“Take that and get me some office supplies.” A hint of a smile crept across May’s lips as Phil quickly outlined his ideas, and it had turned into an outright grin (for her) by the time he roughed in his plan.

“I’ll be back in twenty.” 

The door closed in Phil’s face, and he yelled to be sure he was heard. “And I want pancakes for breakfast, while you’re out.”

Phil rubbed his thumb over the soft knit fabric across his stomach, letting his thoughts drift again to the night before, to the way his brain ticked through his objectives as if he really had been talking to Clint. As if Clint had been sprawled across the bed, ankle hooked over Phil’s, ignoring the intimacy of their joint nudity, in favor of discussing the future mission, with a healthy sprinkling of baseball stats or random facts about roadside tourist traps. In Phil’s head, it sounded like any conversation they’d ever had, the mix of pertinent information and off-topic tangents. It was the way they learned so much about each other, about being together, about themselves. 

Frozen in the center of the room, the truth behind his musings swept through Phil: he missed Clint. Not Clint’s bow (although it would be helpful). Nor Clint’s body (although he had spent too long on every detail of that body the night before to say he _wasn’t_ missing that, too). Mostly, though, Phil just missed Clint, the man himself. Their friendship. The more than a decade of closeness and ease. And love.

Phil dressed quickly, pulling on his blue dress shirt to hide the dark t-shirt he was already wearing. It was probably a weakness to wear his former lover’s clothing, but Phil needed the reminder that there _was_ a Clint Barton out there in the world. That, at least once, Clint had loved him. If this all went to hell, well, at least it would happen with that one small hint of intimacy. After checking the knot on his tie, he went to brief May over fluffy, syrupy goodness to prepare to present his mission idea to the whole team.

***

Hours later, safely back in his room, Phil stripped off Fitz’s shirt and sweater. That had been _fun_. That had been fun on a level that Phil had nearly forgotten that missions _could_ be fun. The last time Natasha had played arm-candy to Phil’s gambling high roller sprang to mind. Plus, it’d been awhile since Phil had a mission that required him to remove his belt. Not since that last mission with Clint. And belt removal hadn’t been mission-required so much as Clint-required. Phil laughed aloud and began buttoning his dress shirt, tucking himself back inside his Agent Coulson persona. He touched the collar of Clint’s shirt before it disappeared behind the neatly pressed button placket.

 _Okay, so I have developed a problem. Not like it’s hurting anyone else. At least I wash it often._

The best part of the incursion into Cybertek had, of course, been getting to play with Trip’s toys. The collection of his granddad’s Howling Commando gear was both impressive and exciting, and Phil couldn’t help his sudden attack of geekdom as they had sorted through the tools. Trip’s honest delight at Phil’s excitement had connected them, and Phil thought how much he could work with that connection. Now he was seeing beyond Agent Triplett, trained by Garrett, to Antoine Triplett, grandson of a Howling Commando and a real SHIELD legacy; Phil liked Antoine. He was a good agent and a good man.

 _When I get the Bus back--_ Phil tightened the knot in his tie, smoothing the tails down over his chest. _When I get it back, I’ll show him my collection. He’ll understand the importance of a 1962 pipe camera._

Phil stepped into his shoes and lifted one foot to the mattress to tie his laces. He didn’t know what Trip was ordering for lunch, but Phil hoped there was a lot of it. He hadn’t been this hungry in… since before Peru. Before the bridge. Before.

Shaking off thoughts that led _backward_ , Phil went to join the team at the poolside table to begin reading over the Project Deathlok documents stolen that morning. His heart shriveled a little as Skye berated herself for being too soft, too gentle, too _weak_ to allow Ward to die as Mike stopped his heart to force her to unlock the drive that held the team’s collected information. He had a momentary flash to an op years before, Clint curling into Phil’s chest, entire body shaking as he fought down sobs. Clint’s hands had clutched too tightly, painfully, and Phil had let him, soothing with his voice, his touch, with soft presses of his lips that weren’t returned.

 _I just couldn’t do it._ His voice sounded dead, and a piece of Phil cracked at the gulf that began to spread between them. _She and I, we’ve got history. I just can’t… I want… I_ need _to try to contact her. I gotta try to bring her in. I can’t do it, Boss. I’m too weak._

In the near aftermath of that night, Phil had regretted his decision, had regretted the space that had grown between himself and Clint as Clint and Natasha had reestablished their connection. As they’d gone from once-lovers to the weird, impossibly-tight sibling relationship they had now. But, in the long run, he could never regret Natasha coming into his life in spite of the wedge that had been driven between himself and Clint for a time. That wedge had cracked and broken spectacularly in a forest in Mozambique when Clint had dragged Phil out of their shelter to dance in the rain, naked and laughing. When they’d finally arrived home, Natasha had taken one look at them and flung her arms around Phil’s shoulders, accepting him as a friend instead of just a teammate. 

Phil still hadn’t decided if the memory of skin in the rain or the memory of that hug was more precious to him.

There was the most painful part: Natasha had been a threat to one relationship. She had never been threatened Phil. Or Clint. Or SHIELD. Or global security. Ward, however… Ward’s betrayal was deep, painful, and unforgivable. Phil would have been hard-pressed to call Deathlok off of him, had he been in Skye’s place. 

“You weren’t weak.” Phil tried to put all the weight of his conviction into his tone, willing Skye to understand that he admired her more for that one decision than for anything else she had ever accomplished. “You had compassion. That’s harder.”

He would have gone further, but they were interrupted by the pizza guy asking for Pablo Jimenez, and, for one incredible moment, Phil expected Clint to bound to his feet to retrieve their lunch. His stomach dropped, and he schooled his expression and voice carefully as he said, “That’s me” and stood up. Maybe using Clint’s account wasn’t Phil’s best plan. At least there was food as a consolation prize. And Phil was _really_ hungry.

“Hey, lookie lookie!” Trip threw down the folder he was reading, waving aloft one of the pages. “Coulson, you’re gonna want to see this! I think I found the money trail!”

Phil read over his shoulder, trying to tame the flicker of excitement that threatened to spill out in an actual laugh and then slapped Trip on the back. Shipment after shipment that whirled around the world, trying to hide their final destination. But it was all there, every one of them heading to Havana.

“Remind me I owe you a cigar while we’re there. Nice catch, Agent Triplett.”

On the way to Cuba, Phil decided to forego his usual in-flight briefing in favor of one last letter, to replace the Aftermath file in the safe. On his Bus. That was somewhere with Garrett. Phil found himself praying to a deity he didn’t believe in that the safe hadn’t been compromised. Garrett would probably never guess who the letters were to, but he would understand some of the other references. Phil also prayed that Clint’s paranoia had made him cover his tracks as well as he always had. Better, even. To keep Skye safe. To keep Kate safe. To keep _Lucky_ safe.

_And that cybernetic asshat had better not have his oily fingers all over my collection, either!_

May knew the location of the former SHIELD base that was hidden beneath a barbershop, having visited it during her early agent years. Trip knew where to park the Jumpjet. Everyone else knew what they had to do to prepare, so Phil tucked himself into a corner and began scribbling.

_Dear C,_

_I’m heading further into danger, and so, most likely are you. I had an Aftermath letter to be sent to you, but it’s not in my hands at the moment. May never get it back. Also, it may eventually be read by a member of HYDRA that you think is an asshat and I used to think was a boor. I was wrong. He is an asshat. I don’t know how to include a posthumous blowjob, so I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive the debt._

_It’s a long shot that this will ever make it to you, but I have to try to fix things, try to give you some answers. To say I’m sorry. Still… I don’t know if I will have another chance to say all of this to you. So I’m writing this and hoping we get out of Cuba, hoping we track down the rat bastard who stole my Bus, and hoping you never see these words._

_It’s unfair to leave you with this, if I die, if I disappear, as you’d never have a chance to respond. To tell me to fuck off. To tell me that I deserve what I brought on myself. If it’s any consolation, I’ve already told myself all of those things. Of course, in my fantasies, you don’t hate me, respond favorably, even. Then I wrap you in my arms and don’t have to let go again. Ever again._

_But I need to say it, to know that you know. I love you. I’m fairly certain that the first time I noticed was the when that Phirst Phorm was Philed by you. The Phirst time you called me Phil. The Phirst time you looked at me with that glowing sparkle in your eyes that wasn’t just attraction, but genuine care. That long. And I never stopped. Never will._

_I treated you badly, and for that I’m sorry. I was so afraid of you hurting me, of you getting too close and seeing me break. I wish I had been brave enough to be honest with you. But I wasn’t. I hope you can forgive me for that, at least in your own heart. I trust that you know me, have known me well enough, to understand that._

_If I make it through this, well, I don’t know the next step yet. Hopefully it will at least involve getting my Bus, my office, my home back. Maybe I’ll get time for a nap and a phone call to New York. If you don’t hear from me until this letter… In that case..._

_Well, just stay safe. You’re vulnerable as an agent, but you should be safe with your other team. Stick near them, if you can. Keep an eye on N for me. She needs you more than she ever shows. Tell her I love her. She knows that, but I want her to know I said the words._

_Be well, live phorever, and remember that you are loved with every piece of my heart. Whatever happens to me, to SHIELD, to you, I believe in you._

_Phondly,  
Phil_

It was the most honest of all the letters Phil had written, and he could feel the blush crawling across his cheekbones as he thought of some of the things he’d written before. He’d hedged so badly in them, trying to justify his actions, but this time, this time he’d just said it all. Straight out, honestly, as calmly as he could. He’d come so far, healed so much, _matured_ , really. And if he could bring himself to say that in this letter, then, maybe after this mission was over… An idea, a tiny glimmer of hope sparkled in Phil’s chest, making his heart beat faster. When this was over…

“Sir?” Jemma’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Trip says to tell you that we’ll be landing in 30.”

“Thank you, Simmons,” Phil replied. He put away love and hope and turned all his thoughts to the mission ahead of them.

Cuba went... not swimmingly. Trip was bruised and limping. May pretended to be unaffected by again holding the berzerker staff, but Phil could see a new line of tension running through her. And they were all affected, painfully, by the lack of their science team as they headed back toward the US.

On the positive side, Phil was pleased that Skye managed to hack Centipede’s systems. He couldn’t find much more to feel good about, however.

He watched the signal for FitzSimmons’ tracker trailing across the Gulf of Mexico, aiming across Texas, as he dialed and redialed the burner cell he’d pressed into Jemma’s palm. At first, it rang unanswered until voicemail picked up. And then he began getting the _This party is unavailable at this time_ message. His stomach clenched. Either the phone had been turned off, or FitzSimmons was out of reach. Either idea was… worrisome. 

Phil cradled the flip phone in his palm, chewing his bottom lip. He closed his eyes and took one deep breath, dialing a number with a New York area code that he had memorized long before. 

_What the hell. Not like this piece of shit is exactly traceable._

Damned landline. Damned landline that Clint was never there to answer. Damned landline that Clint was never there to answer and had never learned to forward to his cell. Phil snapped the phone closed in frustration and sucked in a breath. He stuck his hand in the inner pocket of his jacket and closed his fist around his other cell phone. The one that had been powered down from the fall of SHIELD. But, no. That was too traceable. Clint would see the number, though, if he’d ever gotten around to getting caller ID. But, if he didn’t answer then... Well, that would hurt too much.

Time to tell the team about their missing science specialists. And then, as soon as they had a solid plan in place, as soon as his team was armed, geared up to infiltrate the base that surrounded the steady-blinking light of FitzSimmon’s tracker, Phil had one more letter to write.

If they lived through this, if _Phil_ lived through this, it was time to stop cowering. There was no telling what the next morning would look like, what the rest of Phil’s life would look like when this one last mission was completed. So it was time to take a chance. Make one last bid for what he wanted. Time to put himself on the line and admit that there was something missing from his life that he really needed in order to function. He began mentally collecting the words to say what was in his heart.

 _My Dearest Hawkeye_

 

CODA:

Fury chuckled to himself as he stumped down the spiral stairs from the command deck on Phil’s tricked out plane. He liked this old Bus, and it suited Coulson down to his ridiculous, perfectly polished suits and that damned collection of obsolete spy toys. A fitting ride for the new Director of SHIELD.

And that had been half the idea, just in case. Fury had known his time as the visible head of the organization was drawing to a close. He knew he’d be needed somewhere else, doing something else. The only question he’d had left to answer was which of his very few people was going to be left in charge in his wake. Had it gone a different way… 

But it didn’t. And Coulson was the right man for the job in this situation. The man was capable, honest, trustworthy. He had a sense of right and wrong like vibranium, nearly impossible to scratch, bend, or break. He was idealistic and weirdly hopeful, and really, how the HELL did that man stay that way, as long as he’d been with SHIELD? Through all the bullshit and weird shit and stupid shit they saw every day. It was like his goddamn superpower, is what it was. Should call him Moral Man. Or SuperIntegrity. Maybe Captain Make-The-Rest-Of-Us-Feel-Like-Bigger-Assholes-Than-Even-Steve-Damn-Rogers-Can. 

The _look_ on Phil’s face when he realized what Fury actually thought of him… that had been priceless. Worth the months of worry. Worth the cost of the Bus. Well, nearly worth that. Maybe. If Phil’d quit getting the damned thing shot up every few weeks. The man had received the Directorship better than being told why he’d been gone through Project TAHITI. Coulson didn’t believe he was a fucking hero! As if there was ever any doubt that Phil was just as vital as the rest of the Avengers. And that was why Fury loved that man so much: baddest motherfucker in the world, and he still thought of himself as just another little guy.

Coulson was so trustworthy that “Trust Me” should be tattooed on his forehead. And _that_ was what SHIELD needed most. They needed to bring in the trustworthy old agents, and that required someone they knew. Someone they knew they could trust. He’d need to recruit some new ones, too, and Phil was good at approaching the newbies. He just had that kind of a face. Plus he’d need to be able to cooperate with Stark and the rest of the freaks and geeks that comprised the Avengers. Hill could deal with Washington for him, but Phil was going to be on his own on the ground and in the trenches. That was where his greatest talents lay, so he’d be fine.

And yet, for all of that, the jackass hadn’t figured out not to leave important things just lying around when there were motherfucking spies on his plane. Did Coulson _really_ think that shoving shit in that decorative box on his desk would hide it from the master spy himself? 

_Don’t know if I should be flattered by his trust or worry that Phil’s slipping a bit there._

Fury chuckled again and resisted the urge to shove his hands in his pockets, not wanting any sounds from inside his jacket to give him away. He wandered through the plane to tell everyone goodbye, stay safe, listen to Coulson, before heading toward the Jumpjet to get Trip to drop him off to meet his next contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading along with us, for kudos and comments, and for all the support, love, ideas, and fun you all provide. 
> 
> Hold on tightly, the last story, Recovery, is coming up soon(ish)!

**Author's Note:**

> There is one more work in this series. Recovery will be another long, joint effort, coming in June. In it, we will see our secrets come to light, and the team gearing up to rebuild SHIELD and rebuild themselves, and Clint and Phil beginning to rebuild together. 
> 
> On this work, as every, grateful thanks to [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) for her help in dragging this out of me in spite of how hard the story fought. Every story in this series is GENUINELY a joint effort. Where would I be without you?
> 
> And deep gratitude to [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) for keeping my grammar, spelling, and thoughts in line. I don't make sense without you looking after me. And my world would be so much duller without you in it.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading, for sticking with us, for the comments and the kudos (and your tears and laughter that feed the monster I've become). Come play with me on [my tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) for updates on my writing, things I find funny, things I find attractive, and bunnies (SOOOO many bunnies). I'd love to see you there!


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